Arthur had been kept well informed of his sister’s recovery, and proved himself the kindest of brothers, sending letters by the dozen, full of such nonsensical jokes, anecdotes, and illustrations, as would have cheered the gloomiest invalid in the world. But the happiest day of all was when the great news arrived that his name was placed first of all in the list of successful candidates for Sandhurst. This was indeed tidings of comfort and joy! Peggy clapped her bandaged hands together, and laughed aloud with tears of pain streaming down her face. “Arthur Saville, V.C., Arthur Saville, V.C.,” she cried, and then fell to groaning because some days must still elapse before the medical examination was over, and her hero was set free to hasten to her side. “And I shall be back at the vicarage then, and we shall all be together! Oh, let us be joyful! How happy I am! What a nice old world it is, after all,” she continued hilariously, while Rosalind gazed at her with reproachful eyes. “Are you so glad to go away? I shall be vewy, vewy sowwy—I’ll miss you awfully. I shall feel that there is nothing to do when you have gone away, Peggy!” Rosalind hesitated, and looked at her companion in uncertain bashful fashion. “I—I think you like me a little bit now, and I’m vewwy fond of you, but you couldn’t bear me before we were ill. You might tell me why?” “I was jealous of you,” said Peggy promptly, whereat Rosalind’s eyes filled with tears. “You won’t be jealous now!” she said dismally, and raised her head to stare at her own reflection in the mirror. The hair, which had once streamed below her waist, was now cut short round her head, her face had lost its delicate bloom, and an ugly scar disfigured her throat and the lower portion of one cheek. Beautiful she must always be, with her faultless features and wonderful eyes, but the bloom and radiance of colour which had been her chief charm had disappeared, for the time being, as completely as though they had never existed. “I’ll love you more,” said Peggy reassuringly. “You are ever so much nicer, and you will be as pretty as ever when your hair grows, and the marks fade away. I like you better when you are not quite so pretty, for you really were disgustingly conceited, weren’t you now? You can’t deny it.” “Oh, Peggy Saville, and so were you! I saw that the first moment you came into the woom! You flared up like a Turkey cock if anyone dared to offend your dignity, and you were always widing about on your high horse tossing your head, and using gweat long words.” “That’s pride, not conceit. It’s quite a different thing.”